Giving Chase (Incendiary Ink #1)

17. New Way Out – Eliza

New Way Out

ELIZA

I'm late to the photo shoot, having lost track of time in a budget meeting that ran long. My heels click rapidly against the polished concrete floors of the studio as I hurry to check in, muttering apologies to the coordinator who's clearly been waiting.

"They're already started," she informs me, leading the way. "Just getting some shots of the band first, then-"

I don't hear the rest of her sentence. My brain short-circuits at the sight of Chase.

His hair. God, his hair. Gone are the shaggy rockstar locks I've known for two decades, replaced by a sleek undercut that somehow makes him look both older and younger at once. The longer top is artfully tousled, and there's a neat beard shadowing his jaw, silver threads catching the studio lights. He looks...

Professional. Put together. Devastatingly handsome.

I realize I'm staring when Will catches my eye and smirks. Thankfully, everyone else is focused on the photographer's instructions.

"Alright, Chase, lean on Will's shoulder - yeah, perfect. Now Mark, if you could just..."

I busy myself with my phone, pretending to check emails while sneaking glances. The new look transforms him from aging rockstar to distinguished musician. It suits him. Suits the man he's become.

"Ms. Kerr!" The photographer's voice makes me jump. "Perfect timing. We need some shots with management."

"Oh, I don't think-" I start, but I'm already being herded toward the group.

"Here, between Chase and Will," the photographer directs, and suddenly I'm there, hyperaware of Chase's proximity, of the heat radiating from his body.

"Hey," he says softly, just for me. "You're late."

I risk a glance up at him, and my heart stutters. This close, I can see the laugh lines around his eyes, the silver in his beard. His eyes are clear, present. No haze of substances dulling that intense green.

"Budget meetings," I manage. "You look... different."

A small smile plays at his lips. "Good different?"

Before I can answer, the photographer calls for another configuration, and we're shifting, moving. Each new pose brings a fresh point of contact - his hand at the small of my back, my shoulder brushing his chest. It's professional, necessary. So why does each touch feel like electricity?

"Actually," the photographer says, reviewing his screen, "let's get a few of just Ms. Kerr and Chase. The rest of you can take five."

My stomach drops. Will and Mark exchange knowing looks as they step away, leaving Chase and me alone in front of the lights.

"Chase, if you could..." The photographer gestures, and suddenly Chase is behind me, one hand resting lightly on my waist. Professional. Casual. Except nothing about Chase's touch has ever been casual.

"Relax," Chase murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. "You look like you're being held hostage."

I want to elbow him, but I force a smile for the camera instead. "I hate having my picture taken. You know that."

"I remember," he says softly. "London, 2008. That press junket where you made me stand in front of you in every shot."

The memory hits me with surprising force - Chase, laughing, playing human shield while I hid from the paparazzi. Things were simpler then. Or maybe we just thought they were.

"Perfect, hold that!" The photographer's voice breaks through my reverie. "That connection - whatever you just said to her, Chase, say it again. Yes! There it is!"

I realize I've turned my head slightly, looking up at Chase, and he's looking down at me with such tenderness it makes my chest ache. For a moment, I forget about the cameras, the people watching, everything except the way he's looking at me.

Click. Click. Click.

"Beautiful," the photographer murmurs. "Absolutely beautiful. Come see."

We break apart, the spell shattered. On the photographer's screen, I watch him scroll through the shots. My breath catches.

There we are, caught in that unguarded moment. Chase's new look is striking, yes, but it's our expressions that grab me. The way we're looking at each other... there's no denying what's there. No pretending it's just professional. No hiding behind carefully constructed walls.

"This one's magic," the photographer says, obviously pleased. "You can feel the history between you."

I step back quickly, nearly stumbling. "I should check in with the stylist about the ceremony outfits," I say, my voice not quite steady. "Excuse me."

I'm halfway to the door when Chase calls after me. "Eliza."

I pause but don't turn. Can't turn. Can't look at him right now.

"For what it's worth," he says quietly, "I think the beard makes me look distinguished."

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. Trust Chase to know exactly how to break the tension. "Distinguished might be pushing it," I say over my shoulder. "But it's not terrible."

His answering chuckle follows me out of the studio. In the hallway, I lean against the wall, taking deep breaths.

That photo. God, that photo. It's going to be everywhere - magazines, websites, the ceremony program. Evidence of everything I've tried so hard to hide, captured in perfect high-resolution.

My phone buzzes - a text from Michelle.

MICHELLE: Saw the proofs. Girl, we need to talk.

That was fucking quick. I close my eyes, remembering the silver in Chase's beard, the warmth of his hand on my waist, the way he looked at me like no time had passed at all.

Distinguished, indeed.

I am in so much trouble.

November 18, 2018

The conference room feels too small for this conversation. I sit at the head of the table, my expression carefully neutral as Will finishes explaining their decision. Twenty years of practice keeps my hands steady as I make notes, even as my heart pounds painfully against my ribs.

"A farewell tour," I repeat, my voice professional, detached. "And one final album."

"We thought it was time," Will says gently. His eyes flick to Chase, who's been studying his hands since the meeting began. "Go out on our own terms, you know?"

I nod, like this is just another business decision. Like they're not telling me my world is about to end. "Of course. That's... that's very wise. We'll need to plan this carefully. Make it special for the fans."

Mark shifts in his seat. "Chase said you'd understand."

At his name, Chase finally looks up, but not at me. Never at me. "We've got the songs," he says, his voice slightly too bright. "Best stuff we've written in years."

Something's off about him. His movements are too sharp, his smile too wide. I've spent two decades learning Chase's tells, and right now, every instinct I have is screaming that something's wrong.

"Well," I say, shuffling my papers to hide the tremor in my hands, "we should start planning immediately. I'll have my team put together some preliminary tour routes, and we'll need to book studio time-"

"Actually," Chase interrupts, still not meeting my eyes, "we were thinking of using Revolution Studios. Fresh start, new sound."

Revolution Studios. All the way across town from my office. Away from my oversight.

"I see." I make another note, my pen pressing too hard into the paper. "That could work. Though their rates are-"

"We'll handle it," Chase says quickly. "You don't need to worry about any of that."

Finally, he looks at me, and what I see in his eyes makes my blood run cold. His pupils are pinpricks, and there's a feverish sheen to his skin that I recognize all too well.

"Well," I stand, needing to end this meeting before my composure cracks completely. "Send me the demos when you have them. We'll set up a proper production schedule."

The band files out, but Chase lingers. I busy myself with my laptop, not trusting myself to look at him directly.

"Eliza," he says softly. "Can we talk?"

I should say no. Every instinct is telling me to maintain professional distance. Instead, I hear myself say, "Close the door."

He does, then leans against it, running a hand through his hair. "Are you okay?"

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. "Am I okay? You're ending the band, Chase. After twenty years. And you couldn't even look at me while telling me."

"It's not like that," he starts, taking a step toward me. "This is... it's better this way. Ending it right, you know?"

I force myself to really look at him. His skin is waxy under the fluorescent lights, and he can't seem to stand still. "Are you clean?" I ask quietly.

"Of course," he says, too quickly. "I promised the guys, didn't I? Totally clean."

Lie . God, such an obvious lie. But he's gotten better at hiding it, or maybe I've gotten too tired to fight.

"Chase..."

"Listen," he cuts me off, moving closer. "I've been thinking. Once this is done - the album, the tour, all of it - we won't be working together anymore. No more professional complications."

My heart stutters. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying," he reaches for my hand, and I try not to notice how his fingers tremble, "maybe we could finally stop pretending. Be together for real."

For a moment, I let myself imagine it. Chase and me, no contracts or careers between us. No more hiding, no more pretending.

But then I see the signs I've been trying to ignore - the slight shake in his hands, the too-bright eyes, the restless energy radiating off him in waves. Whatever he's on, it's not just alcohol anymore.

"Chase," I say carefully, pulling my hand away, "let's... let's focus on the album first. Make sure this farewell is everything it should be."

Something flashes in his eyes - hurt? Anger? - but it's gone so quickly I might have imagined it. "Right," he says, his voice hardening slightly. "Always the professional."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" He steps back, and I feel the distance like a physical thing. "Twenty years, Eliza. Twenty years of 'not the right time' and 'too complicated.' When is it going to be simple enough for you?"

When you're really clean , I want to say. When I'm not terrified that loving you means watching you destroy yourself.

Instead, I say, "We should focus on the band right now. Everything else... we can figure that out later."

He laughs, but there's no warmth in it. "Later. Right. There's always later with you, isn't there?"

Before I can respond, he's gone, the door clicking shut behind him with devastating finality.

I sink into my chair, the professional mask finally cracking. Tears burn behind my eyes, but I blink them back. Not here. Not now.

My phone buzzes - a text from Will.

WILL: Keep an eye on him, okay? He's not as fine as he wants us to think.

I stare at the message, my vision blurring. Oh, Will. If only you knew how hard that is to do when someone's determined to destroy themselves.

My gaze falls on a framed photo on my desk - the band's first gold record celebration. We're all so young, so full of hope. Chase has his arm around my waist, both of us laughing at something off-camera.

I turn the frame face-down. I can't look at that Chase right now, can't reconcile him with the man who just left my office, vibrating with barely controlled chaos.

One last album. One last tour.

Please, I think, though I'm not sure who I'm praying to, don't let it be the end of him too.